Silvers
by hewhoistomriddle
Summary: Lucius/Narcissa drabbles.
1. Winter balls

**Notes: **Harry Potter fanfic. Because I owe it to my first fandom.

**Warnings: **Excessively flowery language. Only this part, I promise.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

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_Prompt: Winter balls_

There is something about Narcissa Black that never fails to catch even the most jaded of their lot off-guard. It wasn't wholly unexpected – years of deliberate breeding made sure of that Black princesses would always stand out from the crowd – but Narcissa was attention-catching in a way different from her more outspoken, boldly beautiful sisters, in a way that made Lucius Malfoy repeatedly sneak curious glances at her, strongly reminded of a winter night in a majestic cathedral, angel statuettes, jewel-tone eyes and beatific faces pulled sternly into themselves.

Indeed, Narcissa looked _positively angelic_, even decked in that shimmery waterfall of a gown – even though his abnormally discerning eye could tell purple wasn't quite her color – and her young face was too mobile to be termed _serene_. His betrothed, while still too young at eleven to inspire fierce adoration in men but had all the promise of doing so once her bones gracefully settled in, was wholly deserving of all the compliments she received tonight like so many little gifts.

(Years later, Lucius in a hollow mood will realize that he alone hadn't offered her some insincerely-kind words that meant too much to girls not yet of age.)

He eases out of a conversation with Bellatrix about Hogwarts or something or the other – ignores the glittery-cruel smile she sends him, cold like the frost beyond the French windows, her dark eyes crinkled at the corners – and approaches Narcissa, carried along by wafts of the best music money could buy, something like a worm crawling along his intestines. The latter Lucius ignores as he crosses the grand floor spidered with frost and lines of magic.

_It will be good_, he remembers his father saying, just a day earlier, deep voice ringing clearly over a crackling green fire, _to strengthen your relationship with the Black girl early on_.

He takes her hand, _just right_, lest he be branded as some cradle-robbing wretch because of a stretch of about, _oh_, four or five years that do not matter in any other context than wizarding high society, lest she turn out to have the temperament of her sister instead of being the bore her mannerisms suggests, and politely whisks her off to dance.

This he will remember in the unfeeling years to come: a crooked smile sneaking out like a viper, shining quick like candlelight flashing off the silver of his school robes and gone just as fast, eyes that were willing – _were taught _– to understand, something almost kind in her curved cheeks.

But now, as the cold air sings over the estate grounds, in the glow of silver-etched chandeliers and winterlights, he simply puts all this to memory and looks forward.

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**Notes: **This is will a series of drabbles that will eventually (I hope) form a cohesive story. I'm really having a hard time getting back into this fandom so if you have – tips? Prompts? Reviews? – I would really appreciate them. So far I wrote this yakking blahblahblahlove to myself, so please... :)


	2. Shooting Stars

**Notes: **Short drabble about the wrong things you learn as kids.

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

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_Prompt: Shooting stars_

Narcissa remembers a night she saw lights dashing across the forbidding sky. Muggles called them shooting stars, and loved them, but they weren't really stars at all. Father said they were but mudbloods – drunk and shooting on broomsticks, loud and crass and flashy as usual – said they were like that, feeling special enough to flaunt their abnormalities, letting the world that wasn't theirs clean up after their bouts of foolishness.

_You mustn't admire them_, Mother had said. But, at eleven, Narcissa still had the tolerance that came from bright imagination, where paupers and becomes princesses and frogs be dragon-kings, and she saw that they were bright and beautiful and made her believe in magic that cannot be stuffed into wands.

Years later, as Lucius traces the graceful symmetry of her face and tells her to

_- live, I will bring Draco back alive, I will –_

Something streaks through the green-corrupted sky – _couldn't be muggleborns, they're all dead or locked up_ – Narcissa remembers that kind of magic which muggles call _miracles_, and hope springs in her heart like a flower after a long dead winter.

She tells the Dark Lord that Harry Potter is dead.

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_End._


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